


A Hungry God

by Irisen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Beholding!Jon, Blood and Gore, Canon Asexual Character, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Sporadic Updates, Time Travel, Trauma, full on beholding yo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irisen/pseuds/Irisen
Summary: ... wouldn't settle for scraps.Or : Jon doesn't go into a coma after the failed Unknowing. Instead, his mind and memories go back in time, right at the beginning of it all, when everyone was still alive and he was still (mostly) human.





	1. What does the future hold ?

Jon is dying.

Fire tears through his flesh and bones, melting and destroying everything in its wake. His body is torn apart, like a leaf in a tornado, and he can feel everything inside of him pop and burst and  _tear_.

Jon is dying.

Jon is dead.

Jon should be dead.

Normal people don't live through an explosion like this, normal people can't think after their body has turned into a mess of ashes and blood, but Jon isn't a normal person. As much as he hates to admit it, Jon is an Avatar, Jon is the door the Eye uses to spy on regular humans, Jon can't be killed as easily as his assistants, can't be killed as easily as pretty much anyone, really.

He wonders, as he floats through a sea of pain and memories, what his body is made of. The Lightless Flame, the Devastation, as Gerry said, has wax and the Stranger has plastic and metal and wood and everything that isn't alive. What is he made of? What could his flesh have been replaced with for him to still be alive, even after all this?

Can this even be considered 'being alive"?

What constitutes as living, really.

Gerry didn't have a body when Jon burned him, did it make him a murderer or was the man already dead long before that? Can wax people be considered alive when they don't have organs or blood or  _anything_.

Is Orsinov, the puppet, the dancer, a living being?

Jon is a monster, just like them, he knows it now, can feel it deep in his soul. It has been days since he has last slept, weeks since he has eaten something other than scraps but he feels fine, he feels fine because, as long as he has them, the statements, he can keep on going. He doesn't need food, doesn't need water, probably doesn't even need oxygen or a body. All he needs is knowledge, and the power it brings.

 _What about Tim?_ He wonders. _What about Daisy?_ They were close to the center of the explosion, they were there when the fire went off. They aren't-weren't- like him, not quite. There was still enough humanity left in them for an explosion like this to be fatal. Their flesh was so soft, so fragile.

Agnes would be delighted, he thinks as he remembers the heat, for everything to have been destroyed in such a way. The Stranger's legion of puppets melted away by the element she likes the most, destroyed in a blaze of flames and wind. He can taste it, deep within a mouth he doesn't have anymore, ashes and blood and hot, dripping plastic.

Around him, the world swirls and spins, never stopping, not even for him, the Archivist. He watches as civilisations rise and fall, as a child learns his first word and as another one is mercilessly crushed by a car, blood spilling on the pavement. He watches a young lady cry in the arm of her husband and two men being stoned to death for the simple crime of love, he watches a dog being adopted and a cat dying, alone and forgotten. He watches an old woman, her mind not quite here anymore, her body so frail she can't stand up on her own, smile as she recognises her daughter for the first time in months, in years.

He watches as she dies, a week later, and as everyone around her breaks down and cries.

He watches and he can't feel  _anything_.

He's detached from all of these scenes, not a judge but a mere observer, the only thing in his heart the sentiment that this, this infinite source of knowledge is what is going to make him powerful that, deep inside of him, this is what he wants. He raises a head he lost an hour, a month, a millenium ago and stares into the unblinking pupil of The Eye, giant, all-seeing. It's watching him as he watches others. It's watching him and, despite being only a giant orb in the sky of the universe, it smiles, like a mother would smile at her newborn child, like a big brother smiles at a younger sibling, proud and loving and caring.

 _This is fake_ , he realises and, slowly, the pride and affection turn into an all-devouring hunger that claws its way through his ribcage and into his head, behind his eyes, into his ears.

He screams but he has no throat, no vocal cords and, therefore, no one hears him.

He wishes he could feel the tears that he  _knows_ are running down his cheeks, he wishes he could hear himself sob but he can feel nothing but the hunger, like a pit in his stomach, endless and dark and  _wanting_. It wants, oh it wants so much. It wants everything. It wants the world, it wants space and time itself. It wants and wants and wants.

 

**A̤̰͠ͅ  R   ̣̗͍̹̙̣ͅC͎͕̦̺̱̺̬͢ ̶̠ H   I  V̬̹̰̲̘͇   ͈I͓ ̰̪̖ S  T**

 

Jon screams at the sky and at the unblinking Eye that inhabits it, he trashes around the bounds that tighten around his neck, bleeding and broken, and wrap around his ankles. He yells and pleads for mercy as he's dragged upward, towards the creature, forced to open his own eyes and look at it directly. If he could still bleed, he's convinced that the liquid coming from his eyes and mouth and nose and ears and  _everything_ would be red. red red red. like tim. because tim is dead and so is daisy and so is everyone everyone is going to die and he knows it because he knows knows knows knows everything everything that the eye wants him to see wants him to observe and the eye wants him to observe everything because he's the archivist and he's the beholder and he's his avatar and he's not human anymore he's not jon he's not anything he's just a door and a window and a puppet and a monster that doesn't need to eat or sleep or love or feel anything else than **H      ͖̱̬ͅU̙͜ ̷  N      G͇͍͇̩̜̫̘ ͖̳̙͘ ̣̞̩͈̲̜͓E     R**

 

 

 

**A̴͕͍͙̳̯̪̹̣͖͈̲̖͚͈͑͋̂ͪͮ̒͛̀̚̕͟͜ͅͅ ̦̳̤̪͖͕͕͋ͭ͂̃̂̐̄ͬ͗͘͟͠ͅͅͅ ̴̧ͧ̒̂͌̑͗ͭͨ̾͋̍̏̾͑͆ͪ̆͞͏̖̺̰͉̙͙̮̳̠̕ ̷̭̩͖̗̔̿́̇ͣ͗̒̀͛̆ͯͭ͜ ̷̨̝̜̗̞͙͙̤̤̝̳͇̤͖̥͖͚̍͊͗͐͊̍ͪͤͦ̒ ̴͓̭͉̠̝͕̹͍̫̐̋ͣ͒͢͟R̷̨͈̹͎̥̘͔̱̳̗͓̯̳̺̠̝͕̞̗̓͆͒ͬ̏̈́̀̊̋̓̑̎̊ͫ̉͟͠ͅ ̴̶̡͍͙̭̱͚̭̣̟͓̺̼͐ͤͪͬ̇ͪ̊̂́ͮ̕͘ ̡͑͐̇͊͏̛̣͙̖̯̳̯͚̜̳̦̠̙͓͇͠͞ͅ ͙͔̙̗̘̜͕̫̬͚̺͚̭̣̳̯̹̒̅̓̽͝ͅ ̶̛̞̙̰̘̖̟̮̥̟̙̰̹̟ͬ̍ͫͤͤ̒̽̈́̚͜͝ ̡̨͚̤̮͌̒̿ͭͦͩ̃̎̓ͨ̏͡ͅC̶̢͙̻̞̳̖̜̝̣̳͉̪̺̤̣̹̤̘̄̈̐ͯ͛ͦ͒ͭ̾͛ͦͅ ̸̗̱̗̞͔͕̺̭̭̗̳̪̪͕͉͓̃̊̿̈̈ͩͨ̿̉̓̊ͨ ̜̩͔̦̻̰̌ͪͪ͂͛̈́ͮ̑̃̅̇̚̕͘͝ ̢̦͍̣͉͍̹̼̤͕͙̠̫̩͌̓ͦ̇̉̈́͛̀̄̚ ̵̛̣̙̞̳̠̮̝̼͖̮̮̞̹͉̠͈̺̒͛̌ͧ̎ͤ̿̎̈͌ͩ̈̑ͫͣ̆͢͠ ̶͇̻͈̣̮ͩ̀̾̔̌͑̐ͭ̈̈ͦ̕H̢̋͆̐͗ͦ̇͐ͥ̾̍͛͛͛ͦ̀̏͆҉҉̺͖͉̤͉̹̕ͅ ̓̇ͧ̒̋̌͐̃̎̽҉̻͖̞̖̭̖̺͓̠̣͉͙̼̥͕͠ ̶̷̧̨̨̮̳͍̦̼̐̿̾ͦ̐͑̂̅̊ͤ̀ͦ̃ ̸̢̙͕͉̮̅ͣ̓̇ͨ́̈́͋ͬ͟ ̈́̏̌͋̊ͪͬ͌̿҉̶̢̠͎̱̠̲͉͜ ͌̀̌͑ͤ͌̒͑ͤͣ̊̐͗̍̒ͤ҉̛̘͕̭͟͞ ͍̠͚̟͓̤̖̲̜̙̥̬̺̗͍̠̹̼̍̉͒́ͤ͂ͩ̑̏͊͂̌̒̕͡͝ͅI̧̛̅̏͂͌̈́ͣͭ̅͛͛͂͑̚͏̪̩̝͚̝̟̣̹͓͖͢ͅ ̶̶̛͚̲͕̟̳̺̰̿ͬ̍́ͭ͟͡ ̛̦͍̠͎͉͖̻̪̏̆͒̎ͪ̃ͪ̒̈́ͨ̅̄̑̚ ̷̪̹̹̭̬̼̳̘̰̻̫ͩͯ͛ͬ̈̐ͩ̇̈́ͬ̂̃̄̚͘͡ͅͅ ̅̽̏̔͋̽͏̖͓̞̬̱̱͖̘̠̞͍̜̣̖̦͈͜ ̐ͭ͗ͬ̈́̍ͫ̒ͭͣ̏͆̿̆͏̨͍̥̘̭̖̱͚͍̪̤̝̻̺̪͢ ̢̨̘̞̭̺̖̠͎̘͚̜͈̤̦̼͖̝̣̌ͨ͌ͬ̒ͧ́̊̊͆̃̐͞͠ͅV̢̯̖̦̭̻̜̮̰̤͈͕͖̭̯͌̽̌͆̔̽́͢ ͣ͗͋͌̀̎̂̿̍ͦ̓̃̄͐҉͚̮̜͢ͅ ͧͦ͂̌̌ͯ̍̒ͬ͢҉̤̗̞͉̬̤̘ ̴̡̓̅ͫ̆ͬ͌ͣ̊͏̻͈͔̪̺ ̵͉̦̠̙̬̲̱̹̟̞͚̫̣̤͈̹͔ͤͨͭ̊̈̋ͩ̋̈͒̓̄̍ͣ̍ͤ͒̇͟͡ͅ ̷̙͍̗̟̖̤͙̙̥̝̹̱̥̈́͂ͯ̎̋͒̔͛ͭ̿͋̾͢͜ͅ ̍͋͐̿̋̔̓̅͋͊͒̓̿ͬ̿̂͏̴҉̴͈͖͚̭̠̗̼̪̭̥͈̫̬̲͎̼͚̻̲I̧͓̝̘̞̪͑̀̈́́ͣ͘͘ ̵̣̗̫̘̖͎̥͓̘̯͔̫̝̀̏̆̀ͤ͆͒ͫ͜ ̾̀̉͞͏͏̸̵̱̮̜͍̗̰̥̻̳ ̧̢͈̻̲̹͍̦̦̙̥̼̮͔͓̺̥͙̰̠ͧ͌͒ͮͫ̋̆̅̾ͤ̚̚͝ ̅̌̀̃͐ͯ͏̟̺̬̤̤̮͕͔͢ͅ ͇̲̱̣̼͉̠̈̃̌ͩ̔̉͐̆̂͜͞ ̴͎̫̱̣̠̘͙̼̠̺̠̫͓̪̞̆ͦ̓̔̈́̐̓ͥ̑ͫ͞ͅS̃̎ͮ̏ͭ̓͛͗̅ͪ̌҉̮͈̤̬̱̙̼̘͙̖͜ ͗ͬͣ̄ͩ̏̇ͧ̍̅͑ͬ҉͏̻̙̣͖̙̹͈ͅ ̡̫̞̘͇͓̥̩̯̺͈̜̀ͪ͂ͭ̓͋͑̈́̐̓̅́̊ͦ́͜͜͝ ̵̑̔͗͒ͨ̆͗͋̉̿̒ͥ͐ͥ͆͒ͯ͋҉҉͔͍̣̳̹̲͕̗̙̭ͅ ̴̢̯̳͖͈̖͉̯̜̩͕͇̯̻͐͌ͦͥͫ̆͜ ̵̷̧̨̫̺͉̳̤̘̟̜̋̈͊̅̓ͨ̅̔̏͠ ͣ̂͊ͣ̈̎͒̈́ͩ͐ͩ̃̃͐͏̗̪̙̹̰̻͍͇͉̕Ţ̳̳̠̱̗̮̹͆ͬ̽ͨ̍̓̕͢**

 

 

 

He can't bear it anymore.

he cant

he doesnt want to become a monster

hes jon

hes jon

hes jon

just jon

 

 

 

**I̴̳̭͕̳̝ͣ̈́ͦ̊ͭ̃̿͟͢͠ ̴̨̳̞͕̙̈̈́̾ͣͦ̒͌ͨͦ͐̌ͥ̅̃͞ ̵̵̸̮͇̠̮̱̣̥̯͔̳̾̂̈̇̈͋̏̔̚̚D͓̗͖̬̞̺̮̦̜͓̟̩̩̜ͮ̔͂͌̈̊̔͊ͫ̌͒ͤ́ͥO̵͇͖͈̝͕̰̤̠̪͕͕̪͚̒̇̀͛ͫ̂̋ͧͤͩ̈́̎ͮ̉̓̚͝ ̢̏ͧͭ͐̌̔ͣ͂ͧͮͭ͊ͧ̉ͣ͝͏̳̤̼̰̼̖̲̺̮͟ ̸̉́̐̍͑̓́̌̊̉҉̷̸͓̣̬̼͕̯̣͇̣ ̥͙̣̘̘͓̞̙̪̗̬͉̻̫̿̽ͫ͂̓͆͑͠͡͡N̴͆ͤ̾̊ͣ̚͏̧̙̬̦̭Ơ̢̺̲̣̰͚͕̘̘̣̙͔͈̣͖͈͎̫̮̌ͬ̍̽̆͆̇̓̽ͧ͐͟T̶̵̻̝͖̗̻͇̻͍͖̼͉͍̬ͬ̐ͫ̓̎̎̂̽͒͐ͪ́̀̅͂͘ͅͅ ̸̷̶͙̼͎̗̙̤ͯ́͂̓ͧͪ͂̽̋́ͬ̄̔ͧ͊̃̚͘ ̷̶̻̲͓̬͎̗̝̤̝̯̙̖̅ͭ͆ͤ̂̓̈́̌ͩ̆̐͘L̛̄ͯ̃̍̓ͫ̒̆̾̋ͫ͆͌̒͒͋͂͢͏̗͉͔̫̫̘̗ͅI̶̶̙̦̝̣͙̙̻͈̰̮̘̬͓̯̰̳͊̋̃̽̆̈ͭ̑͑ͪ̊̈͆̅͘͜ͅK̶̛̬̥̖̼̗̺̝͓̫̪̗͍̝̩͑̽́̂̇̅͠Ȩ̴̷͍̤̻̮̥̓ͮ͌ͬ̒̑͛̃ͬ̑̓͟͢ ̾̽ͮ͛̎ͬͦͦ̓̎̔҉̢̹̻͓͓͕̜̫͍͠ ̛͊ͦͪ͒̽̓̓̌͊̈̅̄̃͗͌̈́͏͢͡͏̹̞̮̺̟̮̗͙̙̤̜͎̝͖̩ ̵̠̥̩̫̝̦͙̳̗̞̘̼̫̪̺ͦ̿̌͊ͨ̀̈́̇̑͂͒̈́̈́̍ͩ͊ͬ͢͡͝ͅͅͅṬ̢̹̦̦͚̣̜͓͓̠͚̲̲̺̠̟̮͓͊̽ͯ͌͌̀̇̉̌̎̏͋ͪ̆̾͜͢͠Ḧ̲̱̗̬̞̟̰̜̞̤̐̿͛͢͠ͅIͫ͆ͣ͗͌̾҉͏҉̙̺̻̙̤͖̯̤̳̞̻͕̤̮S̹̦̱̗͉̲̪̦͚̝͉͕̮̦͇̞͌̐ͮ̓̅̃͂ͪ͊́͝͡ ̧̧͌̾̓͌͘͘҉̗̱̩͙͔ ̴̴͎͔̠̟͇͙͍̆̑̒̉̊ͬ̾̽ͩ́͌͛̊͌̚̕ͅ ͎̲͎̻̙̮͈̹͉̩͎̥̣̻̯͙͙ͯ̉͐̂̆ͮ̍̔́ͅE͔̻̟̙̖̙͓̦͙̳̘̤ͣ͛̌̑̔̏̊ͩ̍͑͐̃ͫ̿ͯͨ͑ͣ͢Ņ̧̪̪͇̥̹̜̗̗̖͓̫̰͎̘͓̲͍͛̽ͫͪͤ̒̓̃̌̕D̷̴̨̡͎̤̳̪̞͍͙͇̗̱̞̱̬͕̥̓̉͋͑ͪ̏͗͒̍̿̇̎ͫ͂̈́́̈́̒̚͟I̡̗̦̺̺̥̹̝̮͚̖͕̬̞̬͖̙͈͌̊̊̈́ͨ̈͘͟͡N̛͉͕͎̯ͬͤͤͥͫ̐͑̂͐̿̅̃͛ͪ̊̈́ͫ͢͡͠ͅĢ̡̨̩̖̤̥̜̞̤̱̭͙̗̘̻͈̖̻͙̄͒̈́̾̊ͫ̔ͪ̊͗̉̉͋̃̑̓ͤ̉͢ͅ**

 

 

 

 

**F͚̚ͅ ͒̀ͫ͊ ̮͈̰̓̊͌̈ ͚̻̖͕ͭ̉ ̦̝͉̟̊̅̾͋̾́I̜̣̺̣ͮ͑ͣ̅̉̉̌ ͓̪͎̝̞̋͆ͧͮͅ ͍̱̥͕̪̮̦ͦ̋ ̻ ̓ͯ̐̉ ̩̩̺̆ͩ͌X͊ͥ͆ ͖̗̝͐͆ͧ͂̆ ̐ͦͦ̌ͧ ͉̹̯̫͓ ̫̪̤̦̪ͫ ̫͓͈ͮ̒͆̀ ̭͒ͨͤ͌ ͚̿̓͐͗̿̉ ̲̘̮̦͈I͓͍ ́ ͍̲̮̼͚͎̼̔̒̅̃̆ͫ̚ ͚̟̟ͦ͊̂͊ͬ̓ ̉̏T̐̈́̂̑ͩ**

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jon opens his eyes and he's crying.

It's not blood, he notices, as he watches it drip down his face and on top of a dark grey folder. It's water and a bit of salt and whatever else goes into regular, human tears. He's so relieved to see it, this proof that something in him remains of a man, that his sobs deepen and he burries his face into his arms, doing his best to muffle the sound of his crying. He doesn't even know why he's doing it really, why he's breaking down now, when everything has already ended and there's no point in mourning anymore? But grief is heavy in his chest and, this time, he can't ignore it. This time, it's cold and heavy and it brings him down like he's a corpse sinking in the middle of the ocean, like he's lost and alone and afraid.

He cries for Sasha, he cries for Tim, he cries for Gerry and for Melanie and for Martin and everyone that was hurt because of his actions. He never realised before, he never  _felt_ , he never...

He's not feeling fine.

He's light-headed and utterly exhausted, even as he cries his heart out, hunched over what appears to be a desk, covered in papers. There's a pit in stomach that isn't quite as big as the world or as the hunger of an all-knowing god but that is still present.

There is no itch at the back of his mind except the one to take out a cigarette, no buzz, no--

Ah.

It's still there.

The feeling of being watched.

So everything has not ended yet, there are still some similarities, some things that will never change.

 

He straightens up.

Tears stop flowing from his eyes as quickly as they came out and he wipes the track they left behind with a clumsy hand. His exhaustion is bone-deep, he realises, as if he had not slept in days and, as he watches the space around him, a cluttered office, full of cardboard boxes, half of them opened, the other half forgotten and useless, he wonders if this might be what has happened to him.

This is familiar.

Jon lowers his eyes, itchy and red, to the folder on his desk and he feels his head spin slightly as he reads its title. Case number 0122204.

With trembling hands he opens it and is met by a picture of a young man, his face drawn and his eyes slightly vacant. Under it is scribbled a name. "Nathan Watts", the ink says, but Jon would have recognised him even without the precision, he will always remember him, he was the first...

He  _is_ the first.

This is

He is

**this is wrong**

 

He barely makes it to the staff bathroom, located a few meters down the corridor that lead to the main archives, outside of his office, before he starts retching, his stomach blessedly empty of any food that could make him vomit anything but bile and stomach acids. His body keeps on spasming for a good minute, bent over the porcelain and feeling like he's about to die, feeling like he's already dead and shouldn't be here because this is wrong, this is all so so wrong.

The sound of footsteps makes him tear himself away from the seat, he barely has the time to run a hand through his hair, trying to keep it out of his eyes ( _but it's useless because his hair is short, cut neatly and tightly against his head and not falling on his shoulder in a greasy, disordered mess_ ) before someone bursts into the bathroom and kneels next to him. He recognises red hair, freckles and the smell of tea leaves and it makes him want to vomit again.

There are no dark smudges under Martin's eyes as he bends down to look at him, worry etched into the lines of his faces ( _but not the kind of worry he used to have_ ), no scars on his neck and no unkempt beard that he didn't have the time or energy to shave. He's here and he's young, sounding so scared for him when he calls his name, his fingers brushing against Jon's shoulders, not quite daring to touch them, to grip them.

"Jon!" This pale copy of the Martin he knows says. "Jon!"

"What's wrong with him?" Someone says, and he can't quite recognise the voice, even if, deep inside of him, he knows that it fe͞e͘l͞s fa̢mil͡i̢ar. Another person kneels next to him and suddenly there is a hand on his forehead and a woman he has never seen before in front of him.

"He's sick alright," S̡͉̤͚̫a̬͙̞̫̻͜ͅs͓h̸͈̼̤̥̝a̴̲̠̦̜ says, once she's done taking his temperature. "Not a really good time, Jon, you know that?"

"Sorry." He manages to croak out, thinking about how badly he failed her and how, in his mind, her face still seems wrong and distorted. Foreign.

"It's not his fault," Martin sighs, shaking his head. "Here, can you stand up?"

He moves to slither an arm behind Jon's back and the simple physical contact bring tears to his eyes. Thankfully, his head hangs low and his assistants are distracted enough that they don't seem to notice his distress, as they help him to his feet. He's smaller than Martin by a good twelve centimeters and, even before everything went wrong, even before he started forgetting to eat, drink and sleep, lighter than him by more than a few kilograms. As such, it doesn't take much effort from his assistant to lift him in his arms, once he realises that Jon's legs are shaking too much for him to stand on his own, even less walk.

"I'm so sorry," the taller man apologises, his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

"I don't think he's going to mind, right now." S̴̢͢͡a̡͞s͏͝͞h͢҉a̶̢̧ sighs, sending Jon a look that manages to be both concerned and exasperated. He wants to ignore it but can't tear his gaze away from her face. Her hair is frizzy and dark when he remembers it blond and straight and her eyes are so much kinder than they used to be, in his dreams. He wants to tell her how much he missed her, how much they all did, but the words catch in his throat and he's left coughing and gasping for air because this is all so  **w ro ng**.

Martin's arms tighten around him.

His head feels like it's going to explode.

This isn't a dream, he knows that. This is reality and this is his life as it was years ago, before the world stopped making sense and he became one of the things he once studied. This body, the one he's in, is weak and delightfully human, the Archivist's powers a mere buzz at the back of his mind, unnoticeable unless he specifically reaches out for it. It's so young and untrained, he thinks, fascinated, as he feels it curl up against his brain. He could probably still make someone answer his questions but it would be such an effort...

For all intents and purposes, he's human.

The memories swirl in his head and it hurts, it hurts so much to remember the world and the dog and the old lady and The Eye. It hurts to think about the way his skin folded and melted and about how his bones broke and his muscles snapped. It hurts to wonder about Tim and Daisy and about Orsinov and the other dancers. It hurts but he can't help but do it because he doesn't understand why he was there and is now here, he doesn't understand what he's doing, in this untainted world, in this untainted body.

"What's wrong with him?" A voice asks, and the air doesn't smell like paper and wood anymore so he must be out of the Archives.

"S--Sir." Martin stammers, his voice echoing in his chest and rumbling against Jon's cheek. "We- uh- we..."

"He's sick, sir. He can't work in this state."

"Obviously not," the voice says, a touch of curiosity laced in its otherwise smooth tone.

It hurts to listen to it, it brings back memories of death and ashes and poison and  _worms_. Jon wants to burry his face deeper into Martin's sweater but he knows he can't run away from this man, knows that, as an Avatar ( _a future Avatar_ ), he has to acknowledge his kind, has to show him some respect.

Inside his heart, The Eye smirks, evil and powerful, and something in his mind twists.

"E̥͎͕ͅl͉̹̟ias̵̟͎" He greets him, opening his eyes ever so slightly and speaking with what remains of the power he once held in his voice. His gaze meets the one of his boss, whose eyebrows have raised in a way that would be imperceptible for anyone who isn't as used to the man as Jon is. He's surprised him, he's not supposed to be able to feel The Beholding so strongly, not yet, when he has only been The Archivist for a few days.

"Jon," Elias says, ignoring the way Martin stiffens at hearing the first name of the Head of the Institute being used so carelessly. "This is-"

"I'm very sorry sir, but I think we should get him to a doctor as soon as possible."

Elias tears his eyes away from him to look at Şas͏h͠a, whose face Jon can't quite see, pressed as he is against his subordinate ( _friend_ ). The air is tense but it's nothing like falling for hours in and endless void or feeling hot wax dig into his arm so Jon isn't really alarmed.

"Of course," the other Avatar says. "Thank you for taking care of this matter, you all can go home once you're done with this."

"But it's only ten in th-" Martin stammers before stopping, probably because of Sasha, who doesn't waste any time thanking their boss before dragging the both of them towards the exit. As they walk, she bends over to peer at Jon's face and frowns down at him.

"He's really out of it." She sighs. "Any idea of what could have caused it?"

"Maybe a flu, I heard some people upstairs had it recently so it might have gotten to him before we moved."

"Might be. But this is really sudden."

Martin shrugs and the movement makes Jon's head move against his chest. He groans slightly at the pain that stabs through his skull and distantly hears his assistant apologise, even though he has done nothing wrong. The world is still spinning, he thinks, floating in space and being carefully watched by a gigantic Eye, mostly blind for now, but which would grow in power as the months passed. He can feel it even as his eyes flutter shut and as his body sags against Martin's, his power growing and growing and growing, much too quickly for it to be painless, much too fast for it to be natural.

He's not The Archivist anymore, not really.

But he might become it again much earlier than he did, the first time around.

 

* * *

 

 

He's in pyjamas.

It's odd, he decides as he feels it against his skin, soft and smooth, but it doesn't feel bad per se. It's just odd. He's not used to this anymore, not used to sleeping in an actual bed and to waking up fully rested, with comfortable clothes and in a warm room.

His body aches, as if he had just broken out of a long and exhausting illness, and he enjoys it silently, remembering not being able to feel anything but the yearning for another statement, for another piece of information, his whole life a collection of scars and testimonies, his entire existence a puppet to a shadowed god that reigned over his every thoughts and actions.

He's still human. He's hungry and thirsty and restless and he's human. He doesn't want to read any statement, he doesn't feel like asking any questions.

Jon opens his eyes to his old room, the one he had before his flat fell out of his possession, mostly due to him being branded as a murderer, he recognises shelves of books and old, washed-out movie posters. He sees a desk and an old computer on top of it, half-covered with papers that he vaguely remembers being his own research into the job of the Head Archivist. He was so stressed about this, about  _not being able to do his job properly_. God, he used to be so young.

Slowly, he sits up, wincing as he calls upon muscles that are still sore from what he assumes was a pretty bad fever. At the back of his mind, he can feel his Power curling up, content. It's small, only a sliver of what it once was, but it's there and, when he touches it with a thought, it responds immediately, spreading in his body like a poison, giving his words the ability to make humans say anything he wants them to, spill their every secrets to him.

He shudders and lets it go. It recedes without a fight and that alone is enough to make him want to tear up again.

Jon leaves his room slowly, his feet moving silently by reflex. he's so used to hiding from monsters that, even in his old, human and safe body he can't help but do it again. His flat is small, which is normal for London, and he reaches his living room quickly, after he's passed by his bathroom and the broom closet he uses to store his old books. There, sitting on his sofa and his nose burried in a novel ( _1984_ , Jon recognises), is Martin.

"Jon!" The man gasps as soon as he sees him there, leaning against the wall. "You're standing up!"

Then, he looks around him, at the living room he's in, and blushes deeply.

"I'm- Uh. This is not what you think!"

"I know."

"I didn't break into your flat, believe me, I just wanted- Well, you were- sick you were sick. This morning? When we were at the Institute. You vomited and then you couldn't walk so I carried you and I called a doctor but we couldn't get into your phone so we couldn't call anyone and uh-we-we decided that I should stay here with you."

"I know."

"So I'm not here to annoy you, really. In fact, I was just waiting for you to wake up before I could leave you alone. Y'know, have some peace? Not for me, I meant for you. You. Have some peace. Without me. But I was worried!"

As he speaks, the assistant starts gathering his belongings (ie : his hoodie and his shoes, that he had taken off and placed next to the sofa) and standing up. Jon sighs.

"Martin," he tells him. "It's fine, I remember all this."

Martin blinks at him, perplexed.

"Y-you do? I mean, no offence but you were pretty uh- out of it."

"I remember the Archives," Jon admits, crossing his arms in front of his chest, "and I remember you carrying me."

"It was only because you couldn't walk!"

"I know. It's fine."

He lets out another sigh, this one more weary than annoyed, and rubs his nose with two of his fingers. He hadn't thought of grabbing his glasses before heading out of his room ( _he isn't used to needing his glasses nowadays_ ) and as a result his vision is blurry, Martin nothing more than a smudge of familiar colours against the background of his wall. Still, he should thank him, that's the polite thing to do and Martin...

Well, this one isn't  _his_ Martin, not yet, but even though, he did so much for him.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Leaves his mouth before he can think of an appropriate way to thank his subordinate. For a brief moment, he ponders the idea of hitting himself in the face for being such an incompetent fool when it comes to social interactions but Martin, thankfully, doesn't seem to take offence at his bluntness. Instead, the other man stutters out a strangled "yes" and follows him wordlessly into his kitchen, looking around curiously as they walk in.

He makes him sit down as the table and readies the kettle as he listens to his coworker ( _friend_ ) talk about what happened after he passed out.

Then, he does something that he should have done years ago ( _in a past that didn't exist anymore_ ).

 

He sits down and has a cup of tea with Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First work into this fandom. I'm working on other fics rn so this is very low on my priority list but the fact that the podcast updates every week hypes me up for writing about it.
> 
> I just want everyone to be happy and for Jon not to be a monster :(
> 
> I haven't settled on a pairing but I'm a Martin/Jon, Tim/Jon and Gerard/Jon fan so any of those might happen. Also Basira/Daisy ofc, but that's for later.


	2. Under the watcher's gaze

Jon goes back to work the very next day.

Martin almost drops his cup when he sees him walk by the break room and Sasha frowns at him disapprovingly, but he barely notices it. Was the Eye not thrumming beneath his skin, foreign to his blood but oh so familiar to his mind, he wouldn't have felt the need to turn and  _look_ at them, to discover their reaction to his being here. But the Eye is here, in his heart, in his brain, so he glances sideways in their direction, even as he would much rather pretend he never saw them in the first place, and something inside of him glows as its curiosity is sated. 

"Jon!" Sasha exclaims, exasperated, when he pushes past Tim to get into his office. "Jon, you can't be here!"

He turns towards her slightly, ignoring the pang of guilt that raises through his chest whenever his eyes land on her and _take time_ to focus on her features. Even now, she's still a bit blurry.

"Too bad," he mutters under his breath, "because I am here."

Sasha sighs at that and Tim, from where he's standing right behind her, rolls his eyes. Once upon a time, Jon would have been able to feel Martin's worry as well as theirs, but his body is human and fresh, so there's no way he can push his abilities that far for now.

He has work to do.

"Jon, you were really sick yesterday." Sasha tells him, with the sensible tone of someone who hasn't just survived through the apocalypse.

Apparently replying that he doesn't even remember being that sick is the wrong thing to do because she immediately grabs his arm and tries to forcibly drag him towards the exit. The feeling of her fingers pressing into his wrist ( _it should have hurt, it was the one Jude burnt, melted_ ) is enough of a distraction that he doesn't try to break free until they're halfway there and, by now, Martin has joined their little group. His face, young, clean-shaven and open, clashes with the one he sees in his dreams, empty, tired and desperate, but he pushes the feeling of wrongness down. Now is not the time for nostalgia.

He's still struggling against Sasha's grip, and trying his best to answer Tim's inquiries as calmly as he possibly can when a voice cuts through their chatter, smooth and poised. Instantly, they close their mouth and stand to listen, enraptured. Even him, who can feel the influence of the Eye burn through his mind, this time coming not from him but from another of its avatars, can't help but fall silent. Elias has had years to perfect his abilities and, even if, at their best, they didn't rival with the one Jon Knows the Archivist can wield, his experience is enough to completely overpower him, especially now that he's essentially as harmless as a toddler.

"Is something wrong?"

Martin whimpers a bit and tries to cover it up with a small cough, his cup still clenched tightly between his fingers. Tim looks mildly annoyed by this development, if a bit impressed (they never really interacted with Elias back then, Jon remembers), but Sasha is absolutely nonplussed as she raises her arm, bringing Jon's up with hers, and says, coldly :

"Yes sir,  _Mr Sims_ is back at work, despite being very clearly ill yesterday morning. This could possibly develop into a health hazard."

Elias nods thoughtfully, his grey eyes flying over the assistants to land on Jon, where they narrow. Something cool and hard presses against the back of his thoughts, not digging,  _not yet_ , but still there, curious and merciless. Inside Sasha's grasp, his arm goes limp. It takes all of his strength not to let it shake like it's trying to. He is not ready for a confrontation with another avatar, not so soon.

"Mr Sims," Elias says amicably. "Can I call you Jon?"

Jon nods, even though his boss hasn't started calling him that until a few weeks into his tenure as the Head Archivist, and a small smile appears on the older man's face. It looks perfectly innocent, if a bit controlled, for anyone who isn't trained in the art of dealing with Elias Bouchard, but, for him, it looks cruel and bloodthirsty. Elias has always been a special kind of monster.

"Jon, how are you feeling?"

"I'm-I'm feeling fine sir. It was just stress, I think."

"Jon, no-" Sasha protests, quickly quieted down by the smug grin that stretches on their boss' face.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it? The job of Head Archivist can be a bit- hm- difficult. But you are feeling better now, correct?"

Tim sighs loudly when Jon nods emphatically and Sasha's nails start digging into his skin when Elias, visibly delighted by his answer, tells him not to overdo it and that he's glad to have him back. The other avatar sends them a last fake warm glance before turning back towards the lift and exiting the Archives. As soon as he's gone, half of the tension in the room disappear, and Jon's ears stop buzzing.

"I can't believe this," Sasha seethes. "Guys, back me up on this."

"I-I agree with you, uh with her. Jon you should rest." Martin twists his hands around his cup of cold tea as he speaks, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

"You're an idiot, Jon." Tim simply says, his tone devoid of any real heat. He's mostly amused by the situation, as he often was, back in their first year as the archival staff. He would change, though, and not for the best. Something inside of Jon desperately wants him to remain the same fun-loving man he still is for now, but another, darker part of his brain screams at him to use him for what he's worth, to sacrifice him like-

He shakes his head, pushing away the Eye's influence, drowning its sick whispers in the sight of his assistants-of his friends- standing there around him. This didn't happen so quickly, the first time, he didn't start thinking like this until well after Prentiss.

"I'm- I'm just going to sit at my desk and read a few statements, alright?" He tells them, rubbing his arm where Sasha has gripped it. "It's going to be fine, nothing strenuous."

The look the three assistants send him is enough to make him understand that they don't believe him in the slightest, but he still manages to keep a somewhat innocent expression. After a brief staredown from Sasha, his subordinates end up sighing and, after Martin tells him, raher forcefully, that he's going to make him a cup of tea, they split up and let him go back to his office. He enters it in a daze, taking in the familiar yet foreign decor with a detached interest. There's no dust on the shelves and no framed picture of him and the Admiral, but there's enough his stuff around that he has no trouble recognising it as his own.

He sits down on his chair, a hard, uncomfortable thing that has probably been around ever since the birth of the Institute, and he lowers his gaze to the desk, on which still sits the statement he hasn't had the chance to read the day before. The Angler Fish. The one he saw...

During the Unknowing.

He doesn't even realise he's turned on the tape recorder until he starts speaking, reading, from the file in front of him and, once he's doing it, he can't stop himself.

"Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April 22nd 2012, audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist." He pauses briefly, then continues :  "Statement begins."

He hasn't yet spoken the first words of Watt's story that the feelings start rushing inside his mind, the cold dampness of an Edinburgh night and the slicing fear of a meeting with a creature from another world. When he opens his mouth again, it feels familiar to have it borrowed by someone he knows isn't him, not quite, to tell the tale of a unfortunate student and of the monster he met after a night of drinking. The words leave his lips easily, his voice shaking, sometimes, with the terror that grips his throat, but he doesn't stop. Not even when the description of the Angler Fish brings back memories of a darkened Wax Museum and of music and demented dancing, not even when Martin opens his door and silently puts a cup full of warm tea in front of him, not even when he feels his energy, instead of being refilled by the reading of a true statement, being drained away from him.

He's the Archivist, and he must record knowledge for the one that Beholds, it's his duty, his most important one.

"I haven't quit smoking, but I do find that I take a lot more taxis now, if I find myself out too late."

He takes a deep breath, like a man gasping for air after narrowly escaping the bottom of the sea, but he doesn't have the time to gather himself as, immediately, his throat starts speaking again, and his mouth moves accordingly :

"Statement ends."

He wants to turn off the recorder, to grab that cuppa before it goes cold and to go talk to Martin, to Sasha, to Tim before they get too far away for him to reach them but he can't move, can't do anything but listen as a voice, loud and silent at the same time, comes close and whispers in his ears, screams inside his mind :

 

W̵͟͏̺̩̩̦͖̟̟͔h̵̷̤̖͚̺͎͇̬͞a̝̮͖̠̗̞ͅt̛͔̩̫̝̟̱͍̦͓ ̴̴̝̝̤͚͎̮͢d̘̗̥͕̜͘͟i̴̢̝̳͚͓d̳͖ͅ ̴͖̺͍̦̜͖͜y̡ͅo͈̗ͅu̼̟ ̫͖̬̥͉t҉̣͈h͈̭̮͔͓̳͜į̺͍̰̜͈̹ͅn̸͏̻͖͕̮̘k̝͓̱͉̘̩̥͞ ̣͉̖͖̼͡?̡͍̯̣̝̮

 

And so, the Archivist reaches down to grab the tape recorder and, truthfully, gives his opinion.

"After some digging by my assistants, it has been found that, between 2005 and 2010, when mister Watts' encounter took place, there were six disappearances in and around Old Fishmarket Close. Most notably the one of Sarah Baldwin, who has... appeared in several other statements. The others victims of this creature are, in order of disappearance, Jessica McEwen in 2005, Sarah Baldwin, in August 2006, Daniel Rawlings, in December of the same year, Ashley Dobson and and Megan Shaw, and then Mr John Fellowes in March 2010.

Megan, I wonder if she is-

I'll have to look into it. Officially, all six disappearances remain unsolved. A picture of the creature has supposedly been taken by Miss Ashley Dobson, and found by one of my assistants, but it only shows an empty alleyway. After the use of some editing software, however, the outline of a hand can be distinguished among the darkness, one that gives off the distinct impression of... beckoning. Whatever it is, it appears to be hunting for people, drawing them in with that simple request for a cigarette and then trapping them. 

This... Angler Fish. The people it caught, I think they are... especially Megan and Sarah, the names are  _familiar_ , but I can't put a finger on it quite yet. I'll have to got through some other statements, see what I can find about them. In the meanwhile, I have to organise a bit of this mess, try to find the relevant statements and read them myself, not- not give them to my assistants. I- I have a lot of work to do."

Briefly, Jon closes his eyes, lowers his head towards his desk and desperately prays for things to end in a different way than it did last time, for the Angler Fish not to appear again, in this crowded wax museum, preening before the cold plastic figure of Nikola Orsinov and of her legion of dancers.

"End recording."

A wave of exhaustion hits him as soon as the words are out of his lips and he fins himself faltering. Distantly, he remembers not being able to record true statements more than once a week, in the beginning, and he curses himself for forgetting about his own weakness. Statements have become so essential to him in the past few years that he has all but cast aside the memory of him needing time to recover from them. That same first statement sent him into a week of tiredness and dizziness the first time he read it. He's only human, and humans are not meant to intrude in the memories of others like that.

He doesn't have time for this.

He has the Unknowing to stop, and bodies to find. He has to confront Jane Prentiss before she destroys part of the Archives, and he has to stop the Not-Them from being delivered to the Institute. He has to save Sasha and Tim and he has to keep Melanie and Basira away from the Institute. If he can, he has to let Michael Crew survive this all because the man has never been a threat to him, not directly, and he has to be wary of the other Michael, and be careful of Helen, too. He has to dodge Elias' inquiries and find a way to contact Gerard, maybe to destroy him maybe to use him. He has to talk to Leitner.

His duties clash in his head, so many tasks and missions that he has trouble keeping track of them. He has to figure out what rituals Gertrude has stopped and what rituals are left for him to interrupt. He has to keep from becoming a monster but regain enough of his powers to be in fighting shape.

He can feel the weight of the Eye's gaze bearing down on him and it takes all that he has not to Look back, mostly because he knows that he's not in any shape to do so, but also because Elias could probably detect it.

He can't ask any of his assistants for help, not this time. It would have been better for them to be completely removed from the Institute, but he hasn't been sent that far back in time, so he will have to content with keeping them away from the most dangerous aspects of the job. If he can stop Prentiss before she gets to the Archives, if he can distract Michael enough that he never contacts Sasha, then he has a chance to keep them safe, he has a chance to keep them alive.

Fix it, the Eye said.

They probably don't have the same goals, difficult to think the same as an omniscient being of fear, but it won't stop him from obeying.

Fix it.

He's going to do it.

He'll save them, all of them, no matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The outline of the story is done, it's going to be a fucking mess. Also I've settled on an ending and it's going to be less of a wish-fulfillment story to deal with s4 than I thought but it's going to be better than nothing? I think? Like a semi fix-it but I just... can't write something fluffy and happy to save my life.  
> Also I've settled on a few background pairings but I'm still hesitating for ma boi Jon. He's really fucked in this story lol, I don't even know if he'll have time to find love (rip jon)


	3. The Elias problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I'm getting back into writing after a month of not doing anything.  
> -> Jon starts to properly think about what he's going to do.

Elias is watching him.

It's obvious, now that he's lucid enough to notice it, and not at all as subtle as he would have expected his boss to be. The feeling is a bit akin to noticing someone staring at him from across a room and not bothering to hide it. He knows he isn't supposed to be able to feel any form of supernatural influence yet but the lack of care his fellow avatar puts into keeping an eye on him almost makes him grit his teeth. It almost feels rude, really, to be spied on in such a way.

He can't even call the man out, not without revealing himself as aware of the universe that has opened inside his head, not without demonstrating abilities he shouldn't yet possess. He has always been more powerful than Gertrude, he knows it now, like he knows a lot of things, glimpses of memories from the seconds (years) he spent floating in a starless sky, and he has been touched by the Powers a long, long time ago, but his blood still flow red and his skin is easy to bruise. Right now, he wouldn't get back up right after getting stabbed, he's still human.

He's still human so the only thing he can do, when he feels Elias' gaze bearing especially hard on his shoulders, his metaphorical breathing down his neck, is grit his teeth and pretend nothing is wrong. He has piqued the interest of the wrong person in a surprising show of carelesness, and now he has to deal with it.

 _He's still watching_ , the part of him that isn't quite human anymore whispers, coiled in the back of his mind, as he accepts Martin's offer to go get lunch together.  _He's looking right at you,_  it adds, as he digs into his salad, the taste of it bland in his mouth, drowned by the remnants of ash and blood against his tongue.  _He wants to know everything about you_ , it laughs, when Martin smiles at him, cheeks a bit red and a bread crumb on his chin, and thanks him for spending time with him.

_Why don't you look back?_

It itches, the desire to turn towards Elias and stare right back at him. It's not overbearing, he can control it with ease, but it  _itches_. It's disturbing and annoying and he can't get it out of his mind, can't get it out of his-

Well, at least he can notice it.

In the months leading up to the Unknowing, the itch had slowly morphed into a stabbing pain, then into an instinct that he followed systemically. In the end, he hadn't even been able to notice when an intention was really his. In the end, he was probably as much a servant of the Eye than Elias, only, unlike his boss, he wasn't fully aware of it.

He wants to think that it'll never happen again but the cold, cold thing behind his eyes stop him from doing so. The Archivist is still there, burried deep inside of him, and every day it claws its way further and further up the pit it has fallen into. Every day, it becomes more powerful. He doesn't even know if he wants to stop it, it had been rather useful back in the days. A mere human is nothing against other avatars, against the powers. He doesn't know if he can afford to remain one, in that context.

"Jon, you wanna head out together?" Martin asks, smile innocent and hopeful, at 6 sharp, when their shift ends. He never used to do this, the first time Jon lived through this, too shy, put upon by Jon's less than friendly attitude. They were never close.

Remorse makes him say yes and nostalgia make him hate himself for enjoying his time with this new Martin. He feels like he's betraying the man he once knew by getting to know this young, vulnerable version of him, but he can't help himself. He desperately needs human contact, something to remind him what it feels like to be normal, to have connections, to have  _emotions_.

And still, Elias is watching him.

It's been two weeks and Martin asks him out to lunch everyday, his smile getting bigger every time he accepts. It's been three weeks and Tim has started stopping by his office to chat whenever he has the time, relaxed and friendly like he never has before. It's been four weeks and Sasha has stopped mothering him and is now asking for his advice on foreign litterature and cinema.

It's been one month and still.

Elias is watching him.

He can't do anything, can't reach out to another avatar, can't go down to the tunnels. Gertrude's corpse is rotting and Leitner is hiding, somewhere underneath his feet, but he can't act upon his desire to find the both of them. Elias is watching and he can't afford to go to war with him, not right now, not until he has regained his strength. The only thing he can do, under the ever-watchful gaze of his boss, is duck his head and pretend he only manages to find statements relevant to the creature he will have to face one day thanks to dumb luck and not to his memories of a time that has yet to come. Even that, he realises, when Elias smiles knowingly at him, after having glanced at the statement in his hand ( _n°0011206, statement of Lawrence Moore_ ), isn't enough to make himself appear ordinary. He's already made the first step towards his role as the Archivist and his boss knows it.

He wishes to slip into the corridors beneath the Archives, back into these familiar walls, free of worms and spiders for now, but he knows that, even if Smirke's influence would protect him for a while, there is no explaining to Elias what he's been doing there, or why he suddenly disappeared from his vision. It's best not to raise suspicions but keeping his behaviour in check has become almost impossible by now. It  _itches_  so damn much, the need to do something, to react, to find out why he was sent back, the need to  _know_.

It doesn't hurt, he thinks, looking at his reflection in the Archives' bathroom mirror, not yet. He's still human, he needs his glasses and his body is free of scars. It doesn't hurt.

But it will.

"Is it the statements?" Sasha whispers to him, a month and a half after he came back to this time, a cup of warm coffee in her hand and a secretive look on her face. "I've come accross them too, the ones you can't record on the computer."

He looks up at her and at her face, open, worried, and he wants to tell her no, he wants to explain and, more than anything, he wants to tell her to never, ever go to Artifact storage, but he finds himself lying again and nodding slowly. Her expression turns from concern to understanding and, as she sits down next to him, on the break room couch, he feels like he's going to scream.

"At first," she tells him, "I didn't believe in them."

He feels her shake her head but he doesn't have the heart to turn to look at her. He hates himself, hates how he's lying and how, despite being closer to his assistants than he has ever been, he still can't bring himself to share the truth the with them. They don't deserve the pain it will bring, they don't deserve the danger.

"It's a bit stupid, right?" Sasha chuckles. "I've been a researcher for what, five years? All it took was one month in the Archives to make me a believer."

Jon tries to laugh along but the only thing that leaves his mouth is an exhausted sigh. He hasn't been sleeping well lately. Not due to the dreams, he doesn't have those anymore, but due to the fact that Elias' ever present gaze makes it difficult for him to relax, to lower his guard.

"I just want to say that you aren't alone, Jon." Sasha whispers, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Martin and Tim have all had to record one of them too, they know how this is and you- you're the one that has to deal with the most of them. We're here for you, you know?"

"I know." He lies. "It's just- there's so many."

So many things to do, so many tasks to finish and none he has been able to start yet. He can't be seen. He can't be noticed.

"Yeah," Sasha snorts. "Kinda weird how no one ever notices the monsters when there's so many statements about them here. I guess people are really good at ignoring what they don't want to know."

"I guess so." He says, and the conversation stops.

 

* * *

 

  

After that day, he tries to avoid any deeper talk with his assistants. He still sees them, of course, still keeps in touch and goes to every movie night Tim hosts at his place but he'll refuse to reply when they start mentioning the statements and, after a while, they learn to avoid the topic. They think he's a bit traumatised by them, that, because he's up to nearly a statement a day (a rythm that has a disastrous repercussion on his health and leaves him exhausted so often that he doesn't even notice it anymore), he wants to avoid the pain they trigger. They respect his wishes, for now, but he can see in the glances they send each other above his head, whenever he isn't supposed to  _see_  or  _know_  , that they're worried about him.

 

* * *

 

 

"I know it's hard," Tim tells him as they climb down the steps to the Archives together. "This world, it's a dark one, believe me, I know. But going in alone isn't going to help you."

Jon looks at him and thinks of a tale he wasn't ever supposed to hear, of two brothers torn apart by the madness of one particularly dangerous mannequin, of Tim, older and sadder, his face covered in blood and twisted with hate, and he wants to laugh at the hypocrisy. If given the chance, Tim is, out of everyone in the Archives, the one that will, without any hesitation, throw himself into the deepest darkness all on his own. And all for what? For revenge?

Jon is of The Eye, he doesn't understand revenge. Even now, when his blood is red and his eyes human, he knows there is only one thing he would ever sacrifice his life for, and this thing isn't revenge.

Maybe it's that the Archives like to have scions of other Powers in their midst, maybe it's that Tim is more human than him (and  _that_ is very likely), but there is something fundamentally different between the two of them, something that sets them apart. He doesn't tell him that, though, only keeps quiet and nods slowly, trying his best to look grateful. Elias' eyes are on him, always, and, in that moment, it's so hard not to throw all caution out of the window and look back that he almost misses a step, too busy biting his lips so hard they bleed to focus on where he's going.

 

* * *

 

 

He's just about to head out for lunchn one day in the beginning of May, with Sasha when he sees it, in the middle of a pile of paper Martin is carrying to his desk. The remnants of the Archivist in his mind scream and claw at his brain, digging deep into his thoughts to make him  _notice_  to make sure he  _knows_  that this is important, that he has to get it.

For a single, terrifying moment, the itch turns into a small pain, like prickling your finger with a needle, or stepping on a small rock, and he can feel himself falling all over again.

He reaches out and grabs Martin's arm as he passes by him. Without saying a word, not trusting himself to speak just yet, he grabs the folder from the pile, making a few papers fall down in the process, and he lowers his gaze to its cover. There, in black ink, is printed a name he knows very well, the name of a person, of a woman, who has haunted his memories for years after her passing. Right now, she's only a small footnote in the Institute's list of people of interest, but he can feel Elias' eyes on him and he knows, as the name  **Jane Prentiss**  fills his vision, that there will be extensive done on her soon. The Eye can't bear ignorance, and Elias, just like him, is of the Eye. He will want to be informed, he will want to know why his Archivist is so fascinated by-

Oh.

"Jon, what's wr-"

He steps past Martin, shrugging off the other man's attempt to comfort him with the ease that comes from a years long habit, and walks into his office, his lunch break all but forgotten. The Eye's influence is gone now, freeing his mind and his will, but he will let Elias believe that it's still there, that it's their shared Entity that's guiding his actions and not a slightly crazy idea that has just spurned into his mind. It's easier to pretend he's being possessed than having to admit to his boss that he's currently thinking up ways of avoiding him.

He clears his desk quickly and opens Prentiss' statement on his desk. His eyes glance over it and it's just as he remembers it, talking about the nest, about the things that are soon to be squirming under her skin and about her slowly rising madness. Her handwriting is shaky, uneven, and, from the paper, he can feel the sickenly sweet influence of the corruption on her mind.

He's wondering if he should start recording when his door opens and in walk Martin and Sasha, both of them looking quite surprised, and even a bit vexed. Sasha's hands are trembling when she puts them on her hips and asks him, tone scathing :

"Jon, what the hell?"

He looks at them both for a few seconds then lowers his eyes towards Prentiss' statement.

He closes it.

"I'm sorry." He lies. "I thought that this was- something else."

Martin and Sasha exchange a look they think he can't see and the other man shrugs. The weight of Elias' presence doesn't lift off his shoulder and Jon knows that, if he might have fooled his assistants for now, his fellow avatar is still very much interested in his actions. This is good, this is what he wants.

This time around, he realises, not without a touch of amusement, Prentiss is going to help him out.

Sure, it won't be willingly but, if he's right, then the results will be in his favour all the same.

 **V̘͇̹̺̤ͅe҉̺̖̲̦̭̯̫r̻̦̭̥̱͔̫y ̤̤̖̻͕G̫̟̟̣o͏̥̹̺̗̳͙o̸̞̥͈̟d̡** something whispers and, if his coworkers are disturbed by the grin that slowly makes its way onto his face, they don't comment on it at all.

 

It's been nearly two months since he came back and it has been slow but, finally, he's making progress.

Soon, he'll be able to start working on the Unknowing.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who hasn't proofread their chapter before posting it online?


End file.
